Sunrise Alley

by Catherine Asaro

  "Sorry." He took an audible breath. "I'm just so afraid someone smarter, better, richer, older than me is going to take you away."

  "Not a chance."

  "What did Giles say to Thomas?"

  "To tell me something. 'He can only take you across once.' Like Charon. The ferryman for Hades."

  "You think that's why you dreamed the phrase?"

  "Maybe." Sam was too agitated to stay put. She pushed away from the sink and shrugged into her robe, the silk smooth against her skin. Then she paced into the bedroom and turned on its lights. "That dream hurts."

  Turner came with her. "Where were you when your father died?"

  "Asleep. It happened in the middle of the night." Sam walked to the sliding glass doors of her balcony. She had opened the curtains earlier, letting moonlight fill the room. Outside, her balcony curved out from the house; beyond it, the crescent moon hung low in the sky, laying a silver path of light across the ocean.

  She opened the doors and went out on the balcony. Wind snapped at her robe, cold and sharp. It had only been a few weeks since she had found Turner on the beach, but in that time the weather had changed from autumn to winter.

  Sam stood at the railing, a half-wall with shelves under it for her potted plants. Resting her elbows on it, she stared at the ocean. Waves rolled into shore, high on the beach with the tide.

  Behind her, Turner put his arms around her waist. "It's cold out here. Come back inside."

  "Does the cold bother you?"

  "Not really."

  "I'm okay with it." It helped clear her mind.

  For a while they watched the ever-changing ocean. Turner nuzzled her neck and she closed her eyes, grateful for his warmth.

  "We should sleep," Turner said.

  "I don't think I can." She turned in his arms and looked up at his face, her palms on his chest. "Something is wrong. It's been wrong for three years, since my father died."

  "You're grieving."

  "It's more than that. I need to talk to Thomas."

  "Why Thomas?"

  "I never spoke to him about my father's death. I just quit consulting for him. I—I don't understand why it's so hard." She heard the tremor in her voice. "I have to call him."

  He smoothed back her hair. "It's one in the morning. That's four a.m. in Washington, D.C."

  "I have to call him." She drew away, her hair blowing around her face. As she went into her bedroom, the wind ruffled the blue sheets on her bed. She sat at her console and put in a call to Thomas.

  Turner pulled over a chair to sit with her. "You should wait until morning."

  She twisted her hands in her lap. "I can't."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know," she whispered. "I'm breaking inside and I don't know why."

  The screen turned white, except for the logo of her phone carrier, a blue lightning bolt. After a few minutes, during which she sat stiff and silent, the screen cleared to show Thomas behind his desk, half asleep, wearing a black robe over dark pajamas. He didn't look happy to see her.

  "Do you have any idea what time it is?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry to wake you." Her voice cracked.

  His scowl disappeared. "What's wrong?"

  Sam took an uneven breath. "My father, I wanted to know—" She stopped. She couldn't go on.

  His voice gentled. "Talk to me, Sam."

  That he simply offered to listen, without castigating her for the strange call, meant more than she knew how to say. "I have nightmares." She struggled with the words. "I was there, Thomas. When he died. I dream about it."

  His forehead creased. "You were here, in D.C."

  Sam knew it made no sense; she had been consulting at the NIA the night her father died. But that did nothing to change her certainty. "I talked to him. While he was dying. Thomas—I—I was talking to him."

  He leaned forward, wide awake now. "He died at four in the morning. In Paraguay."

  "Four in the morning. Like now." No wonder it felt so immediate, as if she were reliving his death. "Oh, God. I was talking to him on the mesh, just like we are now."

  Dismayed comprehension came into his face. "You mean, when the attack came?"

  "Yes." Tears welled in her eyes. It was coming back, what she had always known, though she had locked it within her subconscious. "The explosions—he was trapped in his embassy room, under the rubble. He couldn't get out." Her voice broke. "And I couldn't do anything. He was dying, talking to me, and I couldn't do a damned thing."

  "Ah, Lord." Thomas lifted his hand to reach for her, then seemed to remember a continent separated them. He dropped it back on the desk. "Sam, I'm so sorry."

  "I—I can't talk." Sam lurched out of her chair. Memories flooded back, dreams from the past three years, except now they spilled into her waking mind. She stumbled across the room and fell on the bed, sending blue comforters and pillows bouncing all around her. She curled up into a ball on her side—and the tears wrenched out of her. She hadn't cried in three years, but now she couldn't stop. She would cry forever and a day longer and it wouldn't be enough, it would never be enough.

  Turner knelt on the bed and pulled her into his arms, the two of them surrounded by the downy quilt and pillows. He rocked her back and forth, murmuring nonsense words. Right then she would have hated anyone who dared call this man less than human.

  Sam didn't know how long she cried. She was tearing in two. She remembered now. Three years ago, she had finally been coming out of her grief over Richard's death. She had been talking to her father when the attack destroyed the embassy. It wasn't the first time they spoke in the late hours; they had both been night owls all their lives. The explosion happened so fast. The room collapsed on him, an inferno of flames and falling stone.

  Hers had been the last voice he ever heard.

  "Ah, please, no." Her body shook with her sobs. "I can't bear it."

  "It's all right," Turner said. "You'll be all right. It will be all right. It will pass."

  She couldn't speak then, could do nothing but cry, held in his arms, his so very human arms, despite their metal, their shape, their hardness. He held her and the demons of her grief receded.

  After an eternity, she lifted her head. Across the room, her console screen showed Thomas at his desk, his face drawn.

  "I shouldn't have left him there," Sam said.

  "I'm sure he understands," Turner said.

  Sam slid off the bed and pulled her robe tighter. Her tears had soaked the silk. She went to the console and sat down. "I'm sorry, Thomas."

  He watched her with concern. "Are you all right?"

  "No." Her smile trembled. "But I will be."

  "I'm terribly sorry."

  A tear ran down her face. "I did say good-bye to him."

  "Yes. There is that." Moisture glimmered in his eyes as well.

  "Thomas—I remembered something else."

  "Yes?"

  "Before he died, my father said, 'He can only take us across once.' It's almost the same thing Giles said."

  "What does it mean?"

  "I think it's a reference to Charon." She pulled her robe tighter. "But why would my father say it?"

  "Maybe you should ask Giles."

  "Do you mind staying on the line?" She didn't want to sever her connection with him now. It would feel too final, too much like what had happened with her father.

  Compassion touched his face. "I don't mind at all."

  Sam put in a call to Giles on another line. At least it was morning in London now. While they waited, she asked Thomas, "Did my mother ever talk to you about my father's death?" Thomas had been in another wing of the embassy. He had spent two weeks in the intensive care unit of the hospital, but he had survived.

  He let her see his sadness, an emotion he usually hid. "We often remember him together."

  "I remember her crying." Painfully, she added, "I held her. But I never said a word about what happened."

  "It worried her. She was afraid you were bottling it up, that yo
u would snap with it someday."

  Sam thought of her dreams. "I couldn't bear to remember. I felt as if I had let him die."

  "Sam, it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have done anything." Gently he added, "It must have been a great comfort to him to have you there. At least he didn't die alone." His own voice caught. "This is always what has tormented me, the way he died."

  "There is that." More tears ran down her face. "He wasn't alone."

  The smaller screen turned white, then cleared to show Giles. He grinned at Sam. "Hey, Bryton. Two calls in just a few weeks. I'm flattered."

  She spoke in a muted voice. "Hello, Giles."

  His amiable look vanished. "Bloody hell, Sam. What happened?"

  She winced. "Do I look that bad?"

  "Like you've been through a war."

  She felt awkward. They hadn't been in close touch these past years. She had remained friends with him and his wife, Katie, but not enough that she could speak easily about personal matters. "I've been talking to Thomas Wharington about—about my father's death."

  "It was a rough time."

  "For a while. It will be all right." She didn't know if she would ever believe that, but she didn't want to burden Giles.

  "Can I help?" he asked.

  "I was wondering about what you wrote to Thomas. You said to tell me that 'he can only take you across once.' "

  "Eh, well." He laughed self-consciously. "It seemed appropriate, given you were dealing with Charon. Ferryman and all."

  "But why did you say that?"

  He seemed puzzled. "I meant no offense."

  "You didn't give any." She needed to go on, even if it hurt. "It's just that . . . that my father . . . he said it when he died."

  "Ah, Sam. It's all too hard sometimes."

  "Yes." Something felt wrong here, very wrong, not with Giles, but with her.

  "At least," Giles added, "that explains why you never said it again."

  A chill spread through Sam. "It?"

  "You know. That saying. About Charon."

  Sam felt icy, then hot. Bile rose in her throat. "Yes," she said distantly. "I guess it does."

  Giles leaned forward. "You're sure you're all right?"

  "Yes. Fine." Her smile felt leaden. "I'm sorry to bother you. It's been a bit of a rough night."

  Worry lines creased his face. "It is no bother, Sam. Anything I can do."

  "Thank you." She had to get off the phone before the train wreck building up inside of her exploded. More was coming back, more of what she had repressed that night, and when the full memories hit, she didn't want anyone to see her fall apart. "Good-bye, Giles."

  "Call anytime you want," he said. "Katie would love to hear from you. Don't be shy."

  "Thank you. I won't."

  After they said good-bye, she turned to Thomas. "Thank you. I should go now."

  "Did Giles help any?"

  "Yes. That phrase—it's just something I used to say." She remembered, now. Oh yes, she remembered. She thought she was going to scream. Incredibly, she kept her voice calm. If she didn't, if she let her turmoil show, Thomas would jump on an airplane and be out here by the morning. She didn't want anyone here now. Except Turner.

  "If you need anything, anything at all, call me," Thomas said. "Better yet, go stay with your mother."

  "I'll think about it."

  "I can come out there."

  "You don't need to. But thanks." She rubbed her eyes. "I'm just tired. I'll call you tomorrow."

  "All right." He spoke with reluctance. "Be well."

  "Thanks. You, too."

  After the screen went dark, she sat, staring at the console.

  "What is it?" Turner asked. "What aren't you saying?"

  Sam finally looked at him. "I'm afraid of heights."

  He gave an uneasy laugh. "No, you're not."

  "I am."

  "But I've seen you—"

  "I forgot."

  "How could you forget that?"

  "If—if the reminders are too painful, you suppress them." Her words came out unevenly. "He was on the balcony of his room when we were talking. Just like my friend who died when I was little. If I remembered her, I would remember him, and how he died. So I forgot both."

  He put his hand on hers. "We do what we need to survive, emotionally as well as physically."

  She wiped the tears on her cheek with the palm of her hand. "Sometimes I think the human capacity for denial is infinite."

  "I'm sorry, Sam. I know that doesn't make it go away. But I'm so very sorry."

  "It's worse than what you think."

  He scooted his chair closer, until his knees bumped hers. "Talk to me. Tell me what scares you so."

  "Don't you know?"

  He seemed bewildered. "No. I don't."

  " 'He can only take you across once.' I used to say that all the time."

  "And you forgot? Because your father said it when he died?"

  "Yes." She felt numb.

  "I'm not surprised it upsets you."

  "You don't understand." Dying. She was dying inside.

  "What?" He squeezed her hands. "What's killing you?"

  She spoke raggedly. "I'm Charon."

  XXIII

  Across the River

  Turner stared at her. "You're joking, yes?"

  "No." She sagged in her chair. "I never meant the idea of Charon for ill. At BioII I was blocked every way I turned with the ethics board. So I created a mesh persona, a crusader for EI rights. That's why Sunrise Alley let me in and why they always called Hud by the name Wildfire. They knew."

  He shook his head. "This can't be."

  Her words tumbled out. "I took the name as a symbol of the controversy about whether or not an EI was alive. If you live, you can die. But it isn't necessarily final for an EI. Charon was a symbol of dying that suggested the possibility of coming back. He's a ferryman. He takes souls of the properly buried across the water at the junction of the Acheron and the Cocytus, the rivers of woe and lamentation. An EI could take the ferry back to the land of the living." Her voice broke. "But not a human. Not my father."

  Sadness filled his voice. "And he said it to you when he died, yes? About the ferryman."

  "Yes." She felt as if she were shattering. "Three years ago, I repressed everything about his death. Including Charon. Especially Charon. The crusader on the meshes ceased to exist."

  "Ah, Sam," Turner murmured. "No wonder Hud stole the identity. It would give him another way to own you."

  "Linden was the only one I told." She wiped the tears off her face. "He and I shared many of the same views."

  "Then Hud knew, too. After the real Charon vanished, there was the identity, tailor-made, a perfect cover for him to get support from the underground."

  "But he twisted it." She felt as if she had been pulled through the wringer on an old-fashioned washing machine.

  "He must have spent the last three years erasing your Charon from the mesh. He excised it from his memories in me, probably in his other copies as well. He wanted no record that Charon had ever been anyone other than him." Turner looked ill. "Maybe he even spied on your house in California. If I hadn't gone there, he would have shown up another time. He tried to absorb those he loved, to make them fully and utterly his. He started by taking your online identity. Then he tried to take you."

  Sam spread her hands on the console, bracing herself against her turmoil. "Giles didn't know I was the original Charon, but he knew I followed the persona. It's why he expected me to be angry when it changed, and why he acted so odd when I said I'd never heard of Charon that night I called him about you." She felt raw with the memories. "That Hud would take it, turn it against me—" Her voice hardened. "I'm glad he's gone."

  "You can denounce him as an imposter."

  "I've a better idea." She sat up straight. "No more personas. No more hiding in the redwoods. It's time I tackled issues of bioethics in the public arena."

  "If I can help, I will."

  "Thank
you," she said softly.

  He hesitated. "I didn't used to fear heights."

  "Hud probably coded it into you. But why?"

  "Because of you, I'd guess." He snapped his fingers. "He didn't program it into me. He coded it into himself. It came from the copy of him I carried. I already had the fear of closed-in spaces, so the pathways must have been easier to access. It leaked into my own matrix."

  She squinted at him. "But why code a phobia?"

  "He wanted to absorb everything about you. That means your fears, too."

  It had a sick sort of logic. "He took himself to his own hell."

  He moved his chair alongside hers and drew her into his arms. "It's over. That's what matters now." With an undisguised gratitude, he whispered, "It's over."

  She put her arms around him, her head on his shoulder. "I wish I could undo the miserable things Hud did to you."

  "We all have darkness within us," Turner said. "It's what gives the light meaning."

  Sam spoke against his shoulder. "Forgive me for getting philosophical, but I think, if the human soul is a sort of inner light that makes us more than a collection of atoms and molecules—then yours shines."

  "It is beautiful to say, Sam." He rested his head against hers. "But a machine has no soul."

  "You are no machine."

  He spoke softly. "With you, I can believe that."

  Epilogue

  They invited only a few people to the ceremony: Sam's mother, Thomas, Giles, a handful of other friends. A few members of Turner's family came, including his mother, who looked very much like him.

  After two years, Sam knew Turner much better, yet he continued to surprise her, every day, as his mind evolved. On his own preference—and the advice of his lawyers—he had submitted to a series of biomech operations to make him look human again. Giles came over from England himself to do the work. None of them could ever say for certain if it affected the outcome of Turner's legal battles, but Sam had no doubt it made a vital difference.

  It took the Supreme Court of the United States to acknowledge Turner as a citizen. They side-stepped the question of his humanity by reinterpreting one word in the constitution. Just as historically "man" had been used for both men and women, so the justices extended "person" to include men, women, and someone like Turner, who had been a citizen before becoming an EI and who passed every visual Turing test he was given. It didn't solve the more complex problem of how humanity would draw the line between human and machine, but it established a precedent that set debates raging, for it gave someone with an EI brain the same rights as a human being.